English, Elizabeth (35 page)

"Sir
Robert, I thank you for your many kindnesses to me and mine. I thank you for
your counsel, as well, though I chose not to heed it. I was very foolish, just
as you said. I wanted to believe that I could trust him, but have found to my
sorrow that you were right. Now I am to pay the price for that. I have brought
this on myself and do not hold you in any way to blame. Go back to London, Sir
Robert, and of your kindness say nothing of this message to your brother. Just
as I have brought my fate upon myself, so has he brought his. 1 fear that there
is nothing anyone can do to stop it now.

"Please
remember me in your prayers."

Jemmy
sank back into his seat, the letter trailing from his hand. Her
uncle?
That
was who she had been meeting with? And she'd told him... He read the words
again. "...I wanted to believe that I could trust him."

She
must have come straight from her meeting with Sir Robert to him, when he'd sat
in the hall with Celia and pretended not to see her. She had come to tell him
the truth. Why hadn't she done so before? If only she had spoken none of this
would have happened. Ah, but what reason did she have to trust? No doubt the
Darnleys had filled her head with all manner of stories of him and his kin. He
could imagine what they'd said to her. She must have been frightened half to
death to come among them, though he had to admit she'd played her part well.
But she hadn't been able to sustain it.

It
all made sense now. His instinct had been right; she had wanted him from the
first. He remembered the day he'd found her on the crag, when he thought she'd
meant to take her life. What had they done to her? What threat had they used to
bend her to their will? And later, in the stables... she had tried to tell him
then, hadn't she? He remembered everything—every look, every touch, every word
they had spoken. She'd meant to tell him but she hadn't. And he understood why.

"This
is me, here, tonight..." she had declared with a courage he could only now
admire. And he'd answered, "You here, tonight, are the woman I love."

Then
he heard the echo of his own voice saying coldly, "A man can't be held
accountable for what he says at such a time," seeing again the way she'd
looked at him, as though he'd stabbed her to the heart. As he might just as
well have done.

She
loved him. No matter what she had been forced to say or do, during that one
night she'd spoken only the truth and had risked her life to prove it. Even now
she'd never tried to turn what had happened between them to her advantage or
asked him once for mercy. No, she'd asked him only one thing: to spare Robin.
And that he had refused.

Jemmy
picked up the smaller letter. He unfolded it and read.

"My
dear Robin. By now you know the full story of what happened to me, and I fear
that you are thinking to avenge me in some way. That is why I write this to you
now, and I beg you to listen to me.

"Vengeance
brings no healing, no peace. It will eat away at your very soul, a bitter
sickness of the spirit, until everything good in you is destroyed. I have seen
that for myself. The Kirallens are not evil; they are the same as any other men
and women. But they are blighted by their dreams of vengeance, the hatred they
nurture carefully in their breasts. I would not see that happen to you, Rob. So
I ask you to leave it be, and I pray you will heed my last request."

Jemmy
raised his eyes, staring blindly ahead. A bitter sickness of the spirit. Yes.
How well she understood them, both Darnley and Kirallen. They were all sick
with fear and hatred, every one of them. Even him. Especially him. He had run
from it half his life, but in the end it had caught him just as surely as it
caught all the others. He turned back to the letter.

"I
would ask as well that you make your way to the McLarans and our grandmother,
Emma. She is a good woman who will welcome you with joy. Say nothing to any
McLaran of me, lest it cause ill will between them and the Kirallens, who have
been allies for many years.

"Rob,
you have been the greatest joy of my life. I only wish I could have seen you
grow to manhood. I know I would be proud. Your sister, Alyson."

She'd
asked her brother to make his way to the McLarans... to Emma. Their
grandmother. And that could only mean that her mother had been—

"Oh,
Stephen," he said softly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Without
waiting for an answer he pulled on his boots and ran from the room, all his
weariness forgotten. But when he reached the stairway he stopped, then went out
into the night. He needed time to think, to understand what he'd just learned.

He
paced through the courtyard, though what he wanted was to go to her and tell
her he understood everything now and loved her all the more for what she had
done. He'd pick her up and carry her to the great bed, pull the curtains around
them, and shut the rest of the world away.

But
the world would not go away. Oh, for one night it might be banished, but there
would be tomorrow... and tomorrow. Soon or late the world would intrude with
its laws, both written and unwritten. And one of those laws was that there
could be no future for Kirallen's heir and Darnley's baseborn daughter.

He
could keep her as his mistress. It was a common enough arrangement. But her
position would be impossible—and not only hers, but any children they might
have. Certain it was that the Kirallens would never accept her children as
their own and no more would the Darnleys. As for the McLarans... they would
turn their backs on her if she were to so openly flaunt propriety. If anything
was to happen to him she'd be friendless, utterly alone. No, he could never ask
her to become his mistress. But he had nothing else to offer.

He
saw his life stretching before him, an endless span of empty days, all spent
alone. It would not matter if he stayed or went, if he married again or not,
for he would always be alone now...

He
sat on the mounting block and looked up at the sky. There was no moon tonight,
for the clouds hung low. No shooting stars upon which he might wish things were
different. Only the mist that turned to rain and fell upon his upturned face.

Things
were as they were. The sooner he accepted that, the better it would be for him
and Alyson, as well. But Jemmy did not want to accept it. He was filled with
rage against the world; relieved and hurt and longing to hear from Alyson
herself that despite all, she loved him still.

He
could never ask that of her, though. And he could never tell her all he felt.
It would be too cruel. Even so, there were things that must be said between
them. He rose to his feet, determined to see her now despite the lateness of
the hour. God knew he would lose her soon enough. At least he could be near her
for the time that they had left.

He
was nearly at the door when he heard it. He stopped, listening hard, but the
night was silent once again. Yet there was no question in his mind of what he'd
heard, the very faint but unmistakable sound of a woman's scream. And it was
coming from the tower room.

Alistair
opened the door of the tower room quietly and peered inside. The Darnley lass
was sitting on the window seat, playing softly on her lute. So silent was
Alistair's entrance that she did not look up, but continued with her song as he
stood watching her from the threshold.

She
was clad in a simple linen shift, her shining hair loose and falling about her
shoulders like a mantle of living flame. Her long, white fingers drew a
plaintive little tune from the instrument, a melancholy air that Alistair had
never head before, and her expression was one of heavy sorrow. For a moment
weariness overwhelmed him and he considered abandoning his errand, then he
stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

"I
bring you the council's judgment," he said.

She
started, the melody lost in a jangle of strings.

"What—what
news?"

"Death."

She
closed her eyes and swallowed hard, then nodded.

"How?"

"Burning
or hanging. It hasn't been decided yet."

Would
she scream or faint or make some plea for mercy? He couldn't imagine her doing
any of those things, and she did not disappoint him. She raised her chin
proudly and said a single word.

"When?"

"Three
days, perhaps a week, no more."

He
sat beside her on the window seat, and she drew away from him. "Have ye
ever seen a burning?" he asked. " 'Tis a most horrible thing. Hanging
is better, but not by much. If the neck is not broken on the drop—" he
shuddered. "Verra ugly. But I think something might be done for ye—if ye
were of a mind to be reasonable."

"What
do you mean?" she asked, and though she did not relax her posture, he
thought he heard a slight quaver in her voice.

"There's
more to your tale than ye have told us. And I mean to have the rest of
it."

She
held his gaze steadily, but he marked the sudden dilation of her pupil.
"I've told you everything."

He
took her hand in his. "Now, lass, we both know that's not the truth,"
he said gently. "There are others besides yourself involved. Who are they?
How much do they know of us?"

"I—I
dinna ken," she said, pulling her hand from his and rising swiftly to her
feet. "Only Celia. She came with me. I wasn't told about the others, just
that they were here. Lord Darnley did not want me to know," she added,
backing away as Alistair stood as well.

"That
sounds well," he said, though of course he did not believe her. There was
at least one person whose identity she knew: the knight she had been embracing
by the river. "But I think that there is more."

"There's
no one else—save for one man, but he is not quartered here. He gave me Lord
Darnley's orders," she went on quickly, taking another step away.

"When?
Where?"

"By
the river," she said, surprising him. "I met him there. But he is
gone now. You cannot find him."

"Who
was he?"

"I
won't say!" she answered with a sudden burst of spirit. "He was kind
to me and sorry for his errand. He would have helped me if he could."

She
stopped, her back against the wall. Alistair placed his hands on either side of
her head, trapping her between his arms. "Fair enough," he said.
"Keep your lover's name if it means that much to ye."

"My
what?"

She
is good, Alistair thought. Very good. The surprise, the confusion in her
voice—if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that they were real.

He
shrugged, dismissing the matter. "Whatever he is, he knows of us now. What
have ye told him?"

"Nothing,"
she said. "There was nothing I
could
tell. I had so little time and
the ladies never trusted me..."

"Perceptive
of them," he said wryly.

Her
face was but inches from his own, close enough to see a few freckles sprinkling
the bridge of her nose. She looked so young and fair, the very picture of
innocence, not at all the unscrupulous adventurer who had deceived them so
completely. Who, even now, was prepared to go on lying, though whether in the
interest of her family or herself he could not say.

Just
as I would do, Alistair thought with grudging admiration, if I were in her
place.

"So
ye told him nothing," he said skeptically. "Is that it?"

"Aye,"
she whispered, her eyes wide with a sincerity that looked astonishingly
genuine. God's teeth, it was no wonder Jemmy had succumbed to her. She could
beguile God and all the saints if she set her mind to it.

"But
ye ken when the attack will come."

"No.
I don't."

"D'ye
ken what sort of trouble ye have landed in?" he asked. "It's over,
lass, 'tis finished. Your English friends won't lift a finger to save your
neck! You're a traitor and a spy and ye have been caught out. There's no help
for ye now."

Still
she maintained a stubborn silence. Time for a change of tactics, he thought,
and traced one finger slowly down the soft skin of her cheek.

"But
for all that you're a pretty doxy, and ye seem to know your business well
enough. Just tell me when the attack will come and then—well, I think we can
come to some arrangement that will please us both. I can see ye safe, and I
will, my word upon it. 'Twould be a shame to see a woman like ye wasted on the
gallows!"

She
turned her head away with a wordless cry.

"Why
so coy?" he said. "What I ask is no more than ye have done
before."

"You
mistake me," she said through trembling lips. "Leave me now."

"You're
in no position to be giving orders. And no mistake is possible. Name your
price," he ordered in the voice that commanded instant obedience from his
knights. "I've had enough of your tricks and games. I want the truth, and
I want it now."

"How
can I tell you what I do not know?"

And
before he realized what she meant to do, she had ducked beneath his arm and was
running for the window.